


Easier

by amberwing



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, massage therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberwing/pseuds/amberwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Massage therapy with Zevran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easier

He's had easier conversations.  Easier situations, too.  Like, Misha thinks, that time in the Tower, where he had to dig himself and his party free from the Sloth demon.  That was easy compared to this.  Or the werewolves!  Werewolves are nothing compared to being on his stomach in his tent, squeezing his eyes closed as tightly as he can while warm, calloused hands work his shoulders.

"My dear Warden," Zevran sighs, his fingertips molten at Misha's nape as he pauses. "You are stiff as a board, and not in the way I would prefer."

Werewolves would be _so_ much simpler.  Their smell wasn't too bad, either, once you got used to it.  Almost preferable to the musky, warm scent of their bodies in the half-dark, of leather and sweat and maybe a tiny bit of old feet from Misha's boots.  It has no right being so present, so pleasant.

"You know," Zevran continues, apparently unmoved by Misha's determined silence, "This would be _much_ better if I had brought my scented oils.  You see, the art of massage is one of many different parts."  His hands begin to move again, palms splaying along Misha's shoulder blades as if he were going to pull them apart.  Misha stiffens more, thinking of how Zevran could just split him in half, take a dagger and dig his spine free as easily as he would a fish.

But, then again, so could so many things.  Being killed is very low on the list of things that Misha fears, now.

"Much like yourself, I would think," the assassin murmurs, his knuckles following the bumps of Misha's spine, slow enough to be counting them.  Maybe he is.  Maybe he's counting the tremors that run from neck to tailbone, tracking the seconds between them like a child chasing thunderbolts. "There is an aspect of strength, of course," and the fingers stop, braced at Misha's hipbones.  Zevran's palms press until Misha is certain he's going to be broken in two, but then move on. "The knowledge that a certain amount of pain is _necessary_."

"Sometimes," Misha says at last, and Zevran chuckles.  His knuckles grind into Misha's shoulder blades again, with enough force to make Misha's teeth grit. "It's the only thing that we can rely on."

"You have found the heart of the matter," Zevran says, relenting long enough for Misha to take a deep breath.  His weight lifts, and there comes the sound of rustling. "But there is more, of course.  It is not only about discipline, you see.  The pain, dear Warden, is simply one side of the spectrum."

Misha holds that breath, a sudden anxiety clutching at his lungs, closing his throat.  There is no light in the tent save that of the fire at the centre of camp, made dim by canvas and distance to a labyrinth of soft shadows.  He twists his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what Zevran is doing, and finds only charred parchment cutouts, one laid over the other.  Any one of those blurry lines could be a knife, any of those movements a masked strike.

"What's the other side?" Misha asks.  They aren't really talking about massage anymore, but he's going to pretend that they are, that he isn't aroused and edging towards terrified. "Are we comparing stoicism and hedonism?"

Zevran's chuckle is a languid, liquid, and Misha listens to the pop of a cork, the softened chap of his palms rubbing together. "Yes, at the heart of the matter," he says.  His hands settle on the dip of Misha's hips again, and oh, Maker, they're slick and warm with some kind of oil.  His palms slide along Misha's back, smoothing over his ribs, shoulders, soft, oil dripping down his sides in molten streams.  Misha can't help but whimper, and then groan as Zevran _presses_ down on his shoulder blades, hard enough to make bones creak. 

He releases Misha and skates downwards again, painting curlicues of oil along Misha's spine, the dimples above his rear. "I am more of the opinion that it takes both sides -- the pleasure _and_ the pain -- in order to be content," Zevran says. "And you, I suspect, rely on the hardship much more than it deserves."

"You suspect?" Misha mumbles into the floor.  It would be easier to participate in this philosophical discussion if Zevran's fingertips weren't flirting with the edge of Misha's smallclothes. "It's simpler to concentrate on what needs to be done."

Zevran clucks his tongue.  One hand disappears again, rustling around for -- more oil, poured in a cold stream directly onto the small of Misha's back.  Misha yelps, struggling to pull himself away, only to have Zevran's other hand press him firmly back down again.  The other hand joins in to start smoothing the oil, slowly warming it against him, until Misha relaxes again.

"But your senses grow dull from only one thing," Zevran says.  Misha feels every hair standing on end as Zevran tugs the waist of his smalls down.  Waits a moment -- for consent?  Misha trembles, and nods as best he can with his mouth pressed into the blankets.  Slick fingertips find the beginning of his crack and gently let oil start drip down between his cheeks. "Pain, or pleasure.  If you are merely buckling down and suffering, you become numb -- and if you drown yourself in luxury, you become empty."

"Numbness," Misha breathes, barely able to keep his voice from cracking as Zevran begins tugging his smalls down further, "is preferable, sometimes."

"Sometimes," Zevran agrees. "But are you numb right now, Warden?"

There's an answer somewhere, but it'd be easier just to relax into this now, let himself get lost.

 

 


End file.
